“’Course, mate. Yeah.” Finn throws an arm over Reza’s shoulder, guides them both away and off toward a bitingly green copse of trees.
Vince opens his mouth. Pauses.
The breeze shifts and ruffles his hair. There’s a bird singing that very much sounds like it would be blue.
“Mace,” he starts quietly, coarsely. “I don’t—don’t really know what I’m doing here. Um.”
Mason doesn’t have anything to say to that, unsurprisingly. Vince buffs out a smudge of dirt near the stone’s base with his shoe.
“You used to tell me that the killer—the they were sick. Used to tell me that a lot, actually.” Vince bites at his lip, wants it to stop trembling. “And I’m—God, you’re not forgiven for what you did, you’ll never—but I’m still.”
The bird stops its chirping for a breath and into that moment Vince spil
